


i'm all yours somehow

by sweetwinegift



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Davis Cup 2018, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 03:27:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16485107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetwinegift/pseuds/sweetwinegift
Summary: Pierre very casually stretches out his legs until his knee is knocking against Nico’s. Nico’s smirking a little, and Pierre thinks that if someone asked him right then to choose between winning the Davis Cup or winning Nico, he wouldn’t even hesitate. He’s already won the Davis Cup, and he’s been working on Nico for years.//or, two davis cup ties where Nico plays with Pierre, and one where he doesn't.





	i'm all yours somehow

**Author's Note:**

> i was going to wait until the dc final to finish this so i could include it but then i decided if france doesn't win i'll be too emo to actually do it lol  
> as usual my certainty that this is fiction is at least at 73%  
> title from 'don't stop now' by the maine :)

**i’m all yours somehow**

 

_FRANCE VS NETHERLANDS_

 

They come into the Netherlands as the defending Davis Cup champions.

That’s a lot of pressure for one team, thinks Pierre, and it’s going to be really embarrassing if they lose it now. He can’t speak for the rest of them, but it’s halfway through Adrian’s match and he’s dealing with the stress by trying to ignore the umpire whenever the score’s called out.

It’s not working too well, though, because Nico’s sitting next to him and murmuring the score under his breath every few points anyway. Sometimes Pierre really hates him. Nico’s good at dispelling the feeling; even as Pierre’s irritated with him, the arm slung lazily across Pierre’s shoulders is enough to ignite a warm, twisting sensation in his gut.

“Maybe if we lose they’ll finally let us take a vacation,” mutters Nico as Adrian goes down a break point.

Pierre presses his lips together to keep from laughing- that probably wouldn’t be a great look at the moment, like, _ha! Adrian can’t even hold his serve? How funny!._ “Don’t be mean,” he murmurs back. “We don’t make fun of _you_ when you’re losing.”

On his other side, Richard lets out a low snort. “Yes, we do,” he argues.

“We’re not talking to you,” replies Pierre haughtily. “What are you doing out here, anyway? Go hit balls at a wall or something. You know if you lose we’ll have to deport you.”

Lucas leans around Nico and tells them to shut up. Fair enough, but he says it with affection.

Pierre doesn’t want to lose, and just as he thinks this, Adrian gets broken.

There’s a deep sigh, and Pierre glances over to see Richard standing up. “Going to hit balls at a wall?” he asks sympathetically, and is rewarded with two quick pats on his shoulder before Richard slips out of the stadium.

Adrian loses in straights, but Richard comes out later and wins so nobody’s too upset about it- except Adrian, probably, but he’s hardly going to talk about it.

They’re shuffling slowly off the court and Pierre pauses to rest his head on Nico’s shoulder, to wrap an arm loosely around the older man’s waist. “Let’s not book that vacation just yet, yeah?” he says, patting Nico’s hip affectionately before pulling away.

Nico laughs, squeezes Pierre’s shoulders. “Shame,” he says. “I could’ve used a break.”

The smile accompanying his words almost makes Pierre go weak at the knees. “Well,” says Pierre reasonably, after a long moment of _totally platonic_ staring. “You _are_ very old and decrepit. Soon I’ll be carrying you off the court.”

Nico just laughs again.

**

Pierre and Nico are sharing a suite, and the only light in the room is the television as it plays something in Dutch that neither of them understand. Nico’s not a fan of Dutch entertainment, apparently, because he reaches for the remote and mutes it.

“Hey,” says Pierre, feigning annoyance. “It was just getting interesting.”

Nico rolls onto his side to face Pierre. He props himself up on his elbow and raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Really?” he asks. Pierre nods. “What was happening, then?”

“He was just about to break up with his girlfriend,” answers Pierre confidently, and then frowns. “Or maybe she was about to break up with him. I hadn’t figured out the specifics yet, but I was _close_.”

Nico shrugs, but he turns the sound back on.

Groaning, Pierre stretches between their beds to snatch the remote and switch the television off altogether. He miscalculates the distance, though, and when he tries to pull back he ends up crashing to the floor instead.

Excellent.

“Don’t laugh,” he says, waving a warning finger in Nico’s direction. “That could’ve been a career ending injury.”

Nico does laugh, obviously, but as Pierre leans back against the side of his bed and pulls his knees to his chest, he also very obligingly joins him on the floor. He reaches up to switch on the lamp, and Pierre thinks he does a very good job of not staring as Nico’s shirt lifts with the movement. He does an even better job of not immediately blurting out that the dim yellow glow that fills the room is _so romantic_ , because that’s more embarrassment than he can take, honestly.

It is romantic, though, or would be under different circumstances. It makes Nico look even better than usual.

Pierre very casually stretches out his legs until his knee is knocking against Nico’s. Nico’s smirking a little, and Pierre thinks that if someone asked him right then to choose between winning the Davis Cup or winning Nico, he wouldn’t even hesitate. He’s already won the Davis Cup, and he’s been working on Nico for _years_.

“We’re going to have to win tomorrow, aren’t we?” asks Nico dryly, as if that’s such a sacrifice for him.

Pierre nods regretfully. “I’m afraid so,” he says, and then he can’t keep the sombre act up any longer. He feels a grin tug at the corners of his mouth. “I mean, I really don’t want Richard making fun of us.”

Nico’s answering smile is luminous. “Our egos would never live it down,” he agrees lightly. “But that might be good for you.”

Pierre rolls his eyes. He wants to do something stupid, like close the already small gap between them or crack some joke about how they should share a bed so there’s less work for the hotel staff in the morning. He’s not _that_ much of an idiot, though, so he settles for announcing, “I’m going to bed. If we lose tomorrow, I’m telling Richard it’s all your fault.”

“We’re not going to lose,” says Nico confidently as he watches Pierre stand up and crawl back under the covers. He does the same a minute later, and when he switches off the lamp, Pierre falls asleep to the sound of Nico’s breathing.

**

Nico’s right; they do win the next day, even if Haase and Rojer are audacious enough to sneak out of the third set tiebreak, and the feel of Nico’s arms around Pierre is almost as good as the feel of winning.

Maybe better, but Pierre won’t admit that, even as he presses a light kiss to his friend’s neck, even as the slight quickening of Nico’s breath threatens to overwhelm him. He blames the overenthusiastic beat of his own heart on the adrenaline rush he always gets from an important win, and leaves it at that.

Later, Adrian fights to get them through to the quarterfinals, and everything is good.

**

_FRANCE VS ITALY_

 

The quarterfinals are in Italy, and Lucas is up a set in the first rubber but Pierre is too busy glaring across the court at Fognini and Bolelli to really notice. He and Nico are going to _crush_ them tomorrow.

Jeremy notices this and lets out a laugh. “You’re not still bitter about the Australian Open, are you?” he asks, and then laughs some more when Pierre turns his dark gaze on him instead. “That was three years ago.”

Always listening, Nico glances over and cracks a smile. “Pierre holds grudges,” he explains cheerfully, wrapping an arm around Pierre’s neck and dropping his hand to Pierre’s shoulder. “He gets that look on his face whenever we see them.”

Pierre makes a strong effort to even out his features. “I do _not_ hold grudges.”

“Yes, you do. You don’t talk to me for hours if I beat you in practice.”

That’s so ridiculous that Pierre has to look over and meet Nico’s irritatingly blue eyes. “That’s blatantly false,” he says. “You’ve never once beaten me in practice, and you know it.” The fingers pressing into his shoulder tighten briefly, and it rattles Pierre enough that he shrugs Nico off altogether. He rolls his shoulders for a moment after, trying to stop the tingling that bursts across his body with only a simple touch from Nico.

Jeremy catches him and raises his eyebrows suggestively. In response to the face Pierre makes, he grins widely before pretending to zip his lips. Nico, thankfully, is watching the match again and misses the entire exchange.

Pierre sighs; he never gets bullied when he sits with Richard.

**

After all his talk about wanting to destroy Fognini and Bolelli, Pierre is spectacularly glad when they actually do. He’s not sure he could’ve handled the embarrassment if he and Nico had lost, so winning 6-1 in the third is seriously gratifying.

“We should make them give us the Australian Open trophy,” he says later that night. The team’s out at dinner, and maybe Pierre’s had a glass of wine or two more than he should, but it’s not like he has to play tomorrow; he just has to smile for the cameras and try not to wince too hard when the crowd gets animated. Or, probably more accurately, when the team gets animated. “We’re obviously so much better than they are.”

There’s a smile playing at Nico’s lips. “Obviously,” he agrees, taking a sip of his own drink and spreading an arm out across the back of Pierre’s chair. “And we’ll ask for their prize money as well.”

Pierre nods enthusiastically. “We’ll take it and go celebrate on the boat.”

Up until this point, the rest of the team had been engaged in a heated discussion about who has to play tomorrow, but Lucas breaks off mid-sentence to stare at Pierre. “You have a _boat_?” he asks, because apparently this is more important than beating Italy and making it into the semifinals again.

“He does not have a boat,” says Nico.

Lucas looks sorely disappointed.

“But I’m going to buy one,” insists Pierre. “With the money we’re stealing.”

Nico sighs. “He’s not buying a boat.”

Okay, thinks Pierre, he’s probably not buying a boat. What would he do with a boat, anyway? Other than impress skeptical teammates at dinner, of course, but the intrigue of him possibly owning a boat already seems to have worn off because Lucas has gone back to complaining about not _wanting_ to play Fognini tomorrow, dammit.

Pierre can hardly blame him; he wouldn’t want to play Fognini either.

“ _I’m_ not playing tomorrow,” he cuts in, just in case Yannick gets any funny ideas. Everyone stops to look at him again, and he gives one single, decisive nod. “You can’t make me. It’s not happening. I won’t do it.”

Nico casually moves Pierre’s glass out of his reach, and Lucas and Jeremy both laugh. “Okay,” says Nico appeasingly. “We won’t make you play.”

What a relief, thinks Pierre, who hadn’t really been worried about being expected to play tomorrow but one can never be too sure with this team. He never knows what they’re going to do next; first they made him play in a final with Richard, tomorrow they’ll be dragging his hungover self onto the court and expecting him to actually win a singles match for them. He’d do something stupid like trip over the net or throw up on the opponent- which, okay, he wouldn’t mind if it’s Fognini- and then they’d be blackmailing him with the photographic evidence until _forever_.

No, thanks.

And, okay, it’s not like playing with Richard was _so_ bad. They’d won, but it wasn’t the same with Nico sitting on the bench instead of standing at his side. It never is. Maybe that’s why he’s drowning in so many of his singles matches; he’s got so used to Nico’s comforting presence on court with him that he doesn’t remember how to play without it.

That’s a troubling thought, and one he doesn’t want to linger on, so he leans past Nico to reclaim his wine. Nico’s laughing at something Jeremy’s just said and the sound tickles against Pierre’s ear, making him wonder briefly whether this _very minor_ intoxication is less due to the wine and more a result of Nico’s good spirits.

He stumbles a little as he retreats, and Nico steadies him with a hand on his lower back without even looking, fingers splayed wide and pressing just a little harder than necessary. Pierre freezes, just for a moment, as he’s hit with the urge to lean into the touch, press himself closer to Nico and never let him go. The hesitation draws Nico’s attention, and in response to his questioning glance, Pierre covers it up with an exaggerated wink as he falls back into his seat and raises his glass to his lips.

Nico just smiles and looks away again, but _holy shit_. Spending so much time with Nico is really, truly, starting to kill Pierre. He might just burst into flames the next time they so much as make eye contact.

He starts considering a boat again; would it impress Nico? He thinks he remembers someone telling him something about how boats always impress ‘the ladies,’ and wonders whether the same can be said about guys.

Pierre sighs. This _thing_ with Nico is getting wholly inconvenient, but Lucas relents the next day and sends them into the semifinals with a win over Fognini, and Pierre figures now he can just get some space and get over it.

**

_FRANCE VS SPAIN_

 

There’s an injury in New York, and when they’re back in France for the semifinals, Pierre doesn’t even get to play. Honestly, that’s not even the weirdest part of the weekend; Benoit’s here just… being Benoit, and Julien apparently has his own definition of retirement when he shows up ready to take Pierre’s place at Nico’s side.

It stings, just a little, which is completely irrational because he’s in no state to play and it’s not like Nico can win the match on his own- well, maybe he could, because he’s pretty good at this whole tennis thing, but that’s not the point.

Still, when they get back to the hotel that first night, Pierre knows he’s pouting, knows Nico knows it too. That he’s still the one sharing a suite with Nico is no consolation, not when he wants to be sharing a court with him, and everything else as well.

“Now you know how I felt,” says Nico, slipping off his jacket and draping it over the back of the couch, and then he clarifies, even though he doesn’t need to. “Last year, in the final.”

That’s no consolation either, and Pierre responds with some unimpressed and unintelligible mumbling. There goes his dignity, but it’s not like anyone ever expected maturity of him, anyway. “Yeah, but,” he says after a moment, and doesn’t finish the sentence as he sits down on the bed, crosses his arms and his legs like a petulant child.

Nico raises his eyebrows. “But?” he prompts.

Pierre thinks back to winning Roland-Garros in June, and nothing since then. They’d lost in the second round at Wimbledon and the third at the US Open, and now it’s a while before they’re even going to be playing together again because Pierre’s got it into his head that he can make himself just as good a singles player as he is a doubles player.

Well, no, he doesn’t really think he’s going to have too much luck with it, but he’s going to try regardless. Nico has more faith in him than he has in himself, and has been more than understanding about Pierre wanting to do his own thing during the Asian swing.

A lump starts to form in Pierre’s throat, mirroring the knot tightening in his chest. “But nothing,” he sighs finally, uncrossing his arms so he can lean back on his hands. He tilts his head to the side, feels a frown beginning to tug at his eyebrows. “I’m just going to miss you.”

 _That’s_ an understatement.

Nico looks for a moment like he isn’t sure whether Pierre’s being serious for once, but then his features soften. He moves to sit on the bed beside Pierre, close enough that they’re touching from their shoulders to their knees.

Letting his eyelids flutter shut, Pierre takes a shaky breath and tries to make sense of everything Nico’s warm presence is making him feel. He doesn’t have much luck, so he settles for just resting his head on Nico’s shoulder.

“Paris,” says Nico. “It’s just until Paris.” He looks down with an amused tilt to his lips and adds, softly, “I’ll miss you too.”

There it is, the consolation Pierre had been looking for. It’s unfair of him, maybe, but he sort of hopes Nico mopes his way through any matches he plays in the next month and a half. If Pierre’s going to be miserable, and he figures he will be, then Nico might as well be miserable, too.

“Don’t go winning any titles without me,” warns Pierre, moving his hands out from under him so he’s lying completely back on the bed.

Nico laughs, and Pierre kicks him. “Okay,” agrees Nico. “But only if you don’t.”

Pierre snorts. “Maybe I’ll see if Julien wants to get a couple of trophies with me.”

Following Pierre’s lead, Nico lies down as well, throwing an arm over his eyes so he doesn’t have to squint into the glaring light above them. He’s still laughing. “A terrible idea,” he says. “You obviously need Richard for that.”

This makes Pierre laugh, too, and eventually they fall asleep like that, above the covers and not quite touching.

**

Before the match starts, Pierre tells Nico he doesn’t have to win this. They’re 2-0 up, and Rafa’s not playing, so really, in the grand scheme of things, what’s one lost doubles rubber? If they lose the tie from here, he figures, they really don’t _deserve_ to make the final for the second year running.

“It’s okay,” he says cheerfully in the locker room, patting Nico’s shoulder with mock sincerity. “We all know you’re useless without me, so we won’t blame you if you lose.”

Nico gives him a _look_ , and Pierre opens his mouth to say more, but Benoit comes out of nowhere to hit him in the back of the head, and that’s that.

Pierre doesn’t say anything else at all until midway through the first set. He’s sitting between Richard and Benoit, and gnawing on his fingernails anxiously- for no good reason, it seems, because Nico and Julien haven’t even broken a sweat.

Also, Benoit is making fun of him.

“I don’t think he’ll play with you ever again after this,” he’s saying gleefully, thumping Pierre’s back probably harder than he intends to. “Let me know when you start looking for a new partner. I’ll happily win a Slam or two with you.”

Pierre decides to be a good sport, decides to go along with it. If they’re joking around, he doesn’t have to think about the actual possibility of Nico leaving him- not to play with Julien, because Julien’s retiring, but with _anyone_. “Thanks, but no,” he says. “I’ll team up with Richard.”

Not even looking away from the match, Richard interjects, “No, you won’t.”

Hm. “Lucas, then,” says Pierre, gesturing vaguely past Benoit to where Lucas is sitting, but Lucas doesn’t seem to be paying any attention at all. “With Nico gone, I might finally get that Australian Open.”

“Doubtful,” says Richard.

Pierre silently agrees. He’s only won a single title without Nico, and that was a good four years ago. Trying to do this all again with someone new is truly unfathomable. Just thinking about it is giving him a headache, and he’s not even being serious.

Benoit’s shaking his head. “Are you kidding?” he says, grinning widely. He’s having far too much fun with this. “Lucas is the only one of us left who has any idea what he’s doing on a singles court. He’s not going to waste his time with you.”

“That’s offensive,” says Richard, leaning across Pierre to give Benoit the dirtiest look Pierre has ever seen. “I’m offended.”

Lucas still isn’t paying any attention to them, and Benoit looks a little bit genuinely frightened of Richard, so the conversation ends there. Also, Yannick turns around between games and hisses at them to shut up, so.

It turns out this is the match that secures their place in the finals; Nico and Julien don’t drop a single game in that first set, and it gets harder from there but they still manage to win in straights, and later Pierre isn’t sure he’s ever smiled wider as he loops his arms around Nico.

“You’re a superstar,” he murmurs into Nico’s neck, and maybe his eyes are a little wet but this is an _emotional moment_ , dammit. He’s pretty sure everyone’s been crying, so it’s not like anyone’s going to notice. “I knew you’d do it.”

Nico laughs, the sound wet with emotion. “I distinctly remember you telling me I _couldn’t_ do it, actually,” he says. He returns the intensity of Pierre’s hug twofold, his grip so tight that Pierre has to focus on getting air into his lungs for a minute, but really, he has to do that whenever Nico’s touching him at all, so he’s getting used to it. “Your lack of faith in me is a little worrying, honestly.”

Pierre pulls back a little, untangles himself so he can reach up and take Nico’s face in both of his hands. “I have all the faith in the world in you,” he says softly, solemnly. “How could I not? You’re the best.”

There’s no reply- at least, not a verbal one. Nico turns his head just enough to press a light kiss against one of Pierre’s palms, and Pierre might be shaking a little. The beating in his chest speeds up to a rate he didn’t even realise was possible, and he knows that it’s not the tennis and the trophies and the winning that he wants from Nico, but just _this_ ; the two of them together, always.

Everyone else in the locker room is still celebrating, and Nico leans forward until his head is resting in the crook of Pierre’s neck. Pierre wraps his arms back around Nico’s waist, tightening until their bodies are touching everywhere, and the feel of Nico’s breath on his shoulder is almost too much; he has to close his eyes for a moment, breathe slowly so he doesn’t forget to breathe altogether.

“I might love you,” admits Pierre, murmuring the words softly against Nico’s damp hair. “Maybe. Just a little.”

Nico barks out a short laugh. “Clearly,” he says. “I’m a superstar, remember?” And then, the laughter in his voice being replaced with raw affection, “I definitely love you. A lot.”

When Pierre opens his eyes, Benoit is giving him an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

**

Once they get back to the hotel at an ungodly hour after an ungodly amount of celebrating the win, this happens: Pierre and Nico fall back onto Nico’s bed, legs tangling together in the sheets as Nico holds Pierre’s hands above his head and tangles their fingers together as well.

Nico’s mouth moving determinedly over Pierre’s neck is distracting him from everything he wants to say, but any words that come out right now are probably just going to be cheesy and romantic and embarrassing, so that’s probably for the best. Instead, he gives all his focus to the task at hand and wraps a leg around Nico’s waist. He’s desperate to get his hands on Nico, so he frees one of them to let it trail across Nico’s bare shoulders and back- _obviously_ their shirts didn’t make it all the way to the bed, and their jeans hadn’t either- and tries not to moan too loudly when Nico takes his earlobe between his teeth.

He fails miserably at that last bit, but the way Nico’s eyes darken at the sound means he can’t really regret it. Dragging his free hand across Nico’s shoulder and up to cup his face, he says, a little desperately, “Kiss me.”

Nico obliges, and the kiss is slow at first, lazy and unhurried and _sweet_ , until Pierre’s hand starts wandering again, making its way down Nico’s chest and sliding beneath his waistband. He pulls back just enough to murmur, “Yes?” and then the kiss turns frantic as Nico answers with a slight jerk of his hips, thrusting into Pierre’s waiting hand.

Pierre isn’t sure how they’ve spent _years_ not doing this and, delighted by the sounds Nico makes when he comes, he vows they’re not going to go without this ever again.

After, there’s a long time before they fall asleep where Pierre’s curled into Nico’s arm and his fingers are idly tracing shapes across Nico’s chest. “We’re going to win the Davis Cup,” he says, the words accompanied by an almost giddy grin.

Nico laughs. “We have a pretty good team,” he agrees. “I like our odds.”

Pierre shakes his head, and he’s no longer able to keep his eyes open. “No,” he says. “I mean- we, specifically, are going to win the Davis Cup. You and me, Nico.”

“Winning the first three rubbers is a big ask,” says Nico, clearly skeptical.

This doesn’t bother Pierre. He thinks about the other semifinal and wonders whether it’ll be Croatia or the USA they’re going to have to beat. “We’ll manage it,” he says after a moment of careful consideration. “We’ll just- I don’t know, bribe the other team into tanking the first two? Or we’ll secretly dope our whole team, and then obviously we’ll win our match easily, and the whole of France will love us forever.”

Nico snorts, and Pierre’s starting to think he isn’t being taken very seriously. “If France doesn’t love us after we won Roland-Garros for them, they probably never will,” he says. “Maybe if we win in Paris _and_ drug the team so we can win the Davis Cup as well. I’m sure the media will love that.”

It all sounds like an excellent idea to Pierre, but he’s fairly certain Nico is making fun of him- well, not about Paris. Nico definitely wants to win Paris. “Fine,” he says, sighing dramatically for emphasis. “If _you_ won’t help me with my schemes, I’ll ask Benoit. You know, while you were playing, he said he wants to win a Slam with me. I think you’ve got some competition.”

“What, you don’t want to play with Richard again?”

Pierre makes a face. “He’s already shot me down once in the past twenty four hours,” he says. “I don’t think my ego can take another hit.”

There’s a long stretch of quiet after that, and Pierre isn’t sure whether Nico’s still awake when he opens his mouth again. “At the start of this year I told myself that if I could only win the Davis Cup or you, I’d take you,” he says, and his voice is so tired that the words almost slur together.

Nico takes a moment to reply. “Good thing you don’t have to choose,” he says finally, and he sounds just as sleepy, but there’s a hint of amusement behind the words. “Yannick would never forgive you.”

Pierre lets the words sink in, and then twists his neck to look up at Nico, forcing his eyes open. “Does that mean I’ve won you?” he asks, and his tone is light and playful but he just _knows_ Nico can tell that it’s a genuine question, that there’s still a trace of uncertainty in his mind about what this is.

“You won me years ago, Pierre,” he says softly, and then they’re kissing.

**Author's Note:**

> love 2 hear ur thoughts :)


End file.
